


birthday boy

by stardustdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Season/Series 06, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22718146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustdean/pseuds/stardustdean
Summary: Ever since he lost his soul, Sam doesn't care for the holidays.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	birthday boy

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the year between S5 and S6. Written for Sam's birthday project over at Tumblr in 2016.

Sam washes his hands.

The bathroom is small and smells nasty. He doesn’t care. He simply takes note of these things and mechanically rubs his palms together, sending the grime and mud and blood of the passing day down the drain.

Another diner, another night, another speck on the map he doesn’t give a damn about. Another hunt came and went. He’s been awfully productive lately, even if it came at a cost of a bait or two. These people should’ve known better than to put themselves in these situations—climbing into abandoned buildings, ‘cause, hey, it might be fun and spooky to take some pics for their stupid blogs, messing with summoning spirits as a joke, or doing other shit that gets people in horror movies killed. They should really know better. That was just your basic natural selection at work.

Sam looks up, meets his sullen reflection in the mirror as if he just challenged it to a stare-off contest. There used to be a time when he’d care about these people when he’d think they deserved protection even if that meant that whatever was eating them would escape to gobble even more people up. But to this, new and improved Sam, the trolley problem isn't a problem at all.

He turns around, walks to the counter and orders a burger. The girl at the counter smiles at him in a way that no one could mistake for a simple smile reserved for a customer, and Sam answers her in kind. Maybe later, if he's in the mood. (He's usually in the mood.)

Sam picks up the tray, carries it over to the table, unwraps the burger, takes a bite. His life is like an algorithm, a series of actions that need to be carried out in turns without any emotional tinge to them. He got so much more than he could've ever hoped for after he jumped into that gaping hole in the cemetery ground. There’s fresh air in his lungs without the rotten heat of Hell, there’s a maggots-less piece of meat in his hamburger, there’s water that won’t burn his lungs once he takes a sip. He should be grateful. Elated, even.

Yet Sam doesn’t feel much gratefulness. Or anything at all.

He remembers writing poems in between crossing the country and bouncing from high school to high school, just trying to find something to get him through the day. These were shitty poems, he knew even back then, but getting it out on the paper helped. Sam wonders why. A couple to the right of him are, apparently, breaking up, and the girl is all but sobbing. Sam wonders why.

There’s a boy celebrating his birthday. He's got a wide and toothless smile. In front of him, a cake, slathered with whipped cream and jam. His eyes are shining. So is the golden number six etched into his party hat. Sam knows this, a cake for your birthday, is what people do. He can remember his own birthdays when he was a boy. Even when they couldn't scrounge up enough cash for a proper cake, Dean always came up with some treat for him come hell or high water. Sam wonders why.

Sam doesn’t miss having feelings. It was messy.

Sam doesn’t think about the boy who happily shoveled the cake into his mouth with both his hands ever again.

Two weeks later, he opens his car’s glove department to find one of his phones flashing with a blinking voicemail icon. It’s his other, other, other, _other_ phone, the only phone he has left from the pre-Hell times. Sometimes it comes in handy to have a link to your past.

Sam flips it open, presses it to his ear and listens. He doesn’t expect the voice on the other side. And, wow, does Sam hate being surprised.

“Hey, Sammy,” the voice slurs. Sam raises his eyebrows slightly. “All your other phones are disconnected by now. Was surprised this one’s still up.”

Sam silently listens, tapping the tips of his fingers on the wheel.

“Well, uh, I know you ain’t gonna hear this, but, um, happy birthday,” the voice continues, breathless and quiet. Dean's drunk off his ass. Sam doesn't drink much anymore unless it's to keep up appearances. Getting your guard down gets you killed. “Wish you were here, man. Lisa and Ben are amazing to me, so much better than what I deserve for what I make them put up with, I mean— c'mon, Sammy, we both know I'm a handful on a good day; and it's been a real long while since I had a good day— yeah, they're good, they're so damn good, but— but they ain’t you. No one’s you.”

This’s pretty pathetic, Sam thinks. He almost feels sorry for him.

“Miss you, Sam.”

The phone beeps, announcing the end of the message, and Sam shoves it back into the glove department before starting the car.

* * *

Time goes so slowly in the cage, and Sam’s lost count of the days gone by.

He tried counting, he really tried. Sometimes Lucifer lets him know the date out of the kindness of his heart.

On one of his birthdays, Lucifer wore Jess’s face as he tore Sam to shreds. That day Lucifer was gentle about it and he was tender when he twisted the knife in Sam's gut. On another, he was Dean, whispering about never wanting to see Sam anymore. Rot in Hell, where you belong, you monster. Your fault that mom’s dead, your fault that you didn’t shoot Azazel while you still could, your fault that the apocalypse’s started. But at least you can’t hurt anyone again now that you’re down below. Sam didn't have many counterpoints to offer. Even by Hell’s standards, it was a horrible day.

What day it’s today, Sam has no idea. Lucifer does seem to clutch his face even tighter than usual as he combs through Sam’s intestines. Or maybe Sam’s imagining it.

* * *

Sam drives to a diner and buys a piece of cake. It’s too dry, and he can barely feel the taste, but he finishes it all anyway.

The distorted reflection in his spoon is someone Sam doesn’t even know.


End file.
